


career boy

by sapphicsongbird



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Jonmartin Yearning, Coming In Pants, Fantasizing, Humiliation kink, M/M, MAG 22, Masturbation, Masturbation Through Clothes, Pining, S1, Season 1, what if i was staying in the archives and i had a crush on my boss...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25242787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicsongbird/pseuds/sapphicsongbird
Summary: It's been weeks since Martin moved, reluctantly, into the Archives to avoid Jane Prentiss. Only one thing can make these long nights bearable.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Kudos: 71





	career boy

_ cheap office coffee _

_ is pumping through my veins now _

_ i work for the man _

_ but you know i love the chains _

_ i could never fight the feeling _

_ i stay up all night _

The cot is painfully uncomfortable. Martin’s rather larger than Jon, something his boss must have failed to consider when he made the offer of transforming this dry, tiny room into a makeshift safehouse. Most nights, for ages now, he spends tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable between the imposing metal rods that mark the cot’s tight edges and dig into the soft flesh of his back and sides. It’s been months since he’s had anything passable for a good night’s sleep. 

Even Jon has left for the evening now. The Institute is dark, utterly. The only illumination is the yellow glow of the streetlights streaming in from the windows. Martin leaves the blinds open, wary of the dark since Prentiss attacked his flat. 

Finally, he sits up warily. His back and hips ache; he’s in for another long night. He’s almost reluctant to check the time, but can’t stop himself: the blinding blue light of his phone screen informs him it’s after one in the morning. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. He fumbles for the light and is cast in fluorescent brightness. For a moment he fingers the notebook on the floor beside him, fancying he might try and get some writing done. But no. His eyes ache from insomnia, a day spent poring over old statements and illegible handwriting. A flush rushes up from his neck to his cheeks; he’s remembering how Jon told him off for working too slowly for his taste.

“Stupid, stupid,” he tells himself. 

Coffee. If he’s going to be up, he may as well do it properly. Exhaustedly, he hoists himself from the cot’s thin mattress and makes his way into the dark halls of the Institute, heading towards the break room. Too anxious to find the light switches proper, he flicks on his phone’s torch to light his path and tries not to look too closely at the intruding shadows. 

“I try not to leave here after dark,” Jon had said. Martin swallows nervously. He’s worried about Jon, workaholic that he is, getting sloppy, bumping into something unsavoury on his tube ride home, or staying up too late recording and utterly draining himself. But God knows the man won’t accept help of any kind. Especially, he thinks with embarrassment, help from Martin. It’s humiliating, to know how incompetent Jon thinks he is. Martin knows he may not be as formally educated as his fellow assistants, but he works hard. His stomach sinks remembering Jon’s last telling-off, and how he’d barely been able to focus on the admonishment itself, his gaze drawn by the sly curve of Jon’s bottom lip, the velvety dark of his skin, his mind lost, twirling in the hypnotic low hum of his “I’m the boss!” voice. 

As he steps into the break room, he tries to ignore the stirring in his lower stomach. All Elias will stock is cheap instant coffee, something Martin doesn’t mind, being more of a tea man who uses “coffee as a last resort” as a general rule. But he’s heard Jon and Sasha complaining about this particular off-brand coffee, and it certainly is bitter, he thinks, as he takes his first scalding sip. 

Jon and Sasha get along particularly well. He finds her level-headed, practical, and she’s smart, certainly. Martin hisses a frustrated breath out between his teeth. Sasha went to grad school; she and Jon bond by comparing theses, teaching assistant posts, supervisors. Despite his CV, Martin tries to avoid talking about his supposed post-secondary experience, exiling himself to his office and shutting the door, straining his ears for Jon’s voice through the thin walls. 

Back in the safe room, he sips his weak coffee, ignoring how it burns his tongue, and lets his mind wander. It’s been over a month since he stayed his first night in the archive without even a toothbrush. Now he’s almost used to the way the building creeks eerily once all the other staff have left. Usually, by the end of the evening, he and Jon are the last people here, even Elias having given up for the evening. 

Come to think of it, he’s not precisely sure what Elias’ job even entails. 

On those nights, he knocks tentatively on the archivist’s door, already-brewed cup of tea in hand. Jon accepts, to his credit, usually minimizing the annoyance in his voice at another interrupted tape. And each evening, Martin turns over the brief encounters in his mind as he waits for sleep that rarely comes. Jon’s unenthusiastic smile, his begrudging “thank you, Martin.” 

Martin adores the way Jon says his name, even when it is tinged with contempt. 

Martin.  _ Mar _ tin. 

The stirring is back now, stronger, and Martin lays back, lost in thought. 

As much shit as Tim gives him for crushing on his boss, when Martin first noticed Jon, they were technically equals, both researchers, though, even then, Jon acted superior in a way most of the other staff found somewhat off-putting. For someone who spent an entire degree and now most of their waking hours studying the paranormal, Jon had little faith in the Institute’s supposed mission, quick to dismiss even the most unsettling stories as drug-induced or mental illness. 

It’s charming, in its way. 

His hand has found its way between his thighs, palming his cock, still mostly soft, over his pants. He likes how Jon lets his guard down after the other assistants have left, pulls his long, soft hair from its tight, precise bun to fall loosely over his face, sometimes even takes off his tie and undoes the top two buttons of his starched shirts. Lately he’s become more dishevelled in an utterly enticing way, coming in with slacks ever-so-slightly wrinkled and deep circles under his bloodshot eyes. 

When Tim had asked him what it was, exactly, about their crotchety, superior boss that drew Martin in so persistently, he hadn’t been able to answer in so many words. How could he voice the way he knew Jon believed more than he was letting on? The sweet dip at the bottom of Jon’s back he’d caught a glimpse of once, after hours, as he stretched in a deep yawn at his desk, thinking no one could see? The enticing crease between his eyebrows or the way he smelled of old paper and spicy soap? 

When he’d shown Martin the room he’d make his home, Jon had placed his hand between Martin’s shoulder blades, scarcely touching him, guiding him forward into the climate-controlled room. The memory of the sensation of Jon’s hot palm through his wool sweater makes his breath catch, and Martin almost laughs at how pathetic he is, here, touching himself to the memory of a touch so brief it could have been imagined, felt, even then, only through cloth. But his mind, caffeine-fueled late at night, tends to run away from him, and in it, Jon’s touch comes with insistent pressure, pushing Martin forward insistently, guiding him towards the cot which would already be set up… 

He doesn’t bother to undress as he slips his hand beneath the worn fabric of his boxers, sighing at skin on skin. How sweet Jon would look in bed beside him, or kneeling at Martin’s feet, his tongue on him. 

He loves how Jon says his name, and imagines it now: Martin,  _ Mar _ tin,  _ Martin. _

His fingers are slick as he speeds up his strokes, tightening his grip, desperate for friction. He bites his lip, bucks into his hand at the thought of Jon here, with him, touching him like this, moaning for him, begging for him. It feels filthy to do this here, and a rush of humiliation crashes over him like a wave, going straight to his aching cock in a wave of arousal that he rides recklessly. 

No one is here. “Jon,” he whispers to himself. “Jon, fuck,  _ Jon _ .” 

When he comes into his fist, it’s sudden, delicious, the spasms rushing through his whole body with a sweetness he leans into, panting. He’s sweaty now, spent, and barely manages to rouse himself to the washroom to tidy up. It’s almost two in the morning, now, and he knows he ought to sleep before Jon arrives at dawn. Back in bed, he manages to drift off just as light begins to creep over the London cityscape.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "career boy" by dorian electra.  
> i'm soft and gay about jonmartin, WHAT ABOUT IT


End file.
